


A Thimble Solution

by hidden_snitch_in_an_alcove



Series: Better Camelate Than Never [1]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: (but not), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, AroAce!Elena, Aromantic, Arranged Marriage, Asexual Character, Asexuality, Blood, Canon Era, Crack, Crack Treated Seriously, Curse Breaking, Curses, Day 1: Ladies First, Episode: s03e05 The Crystal Cave, F/M, Fairy Tale Curses, Fairy Tale Logic, Frogs, Gen, If you're unfamiliar with Peter Pan then some of this may confuse you, Kissing, Magical Accidents, Merlin's impulsive magical ability to animate or transform objects, Minor Character Death, Minor Gwen/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), Not Beta Read, POV Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), Peter Pan References, Pre-Relationship, Temporary Character Death, Uther Pendragon's A+ Parenting (Merlin), also, because Gwen and Arthur aren't technically together yet, oh yeah, puns, y e t
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-20
Updated: 2021-02-20
Packaged: 2021-03-17 11:22:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29592069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hidden_snitch_in_an_alcove/pseuds/hidden_snitch_in_an_alcove
Summary: "Are you saying I look like a toad?""Yes."And then he does.
Relationships: Elena & Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), Gwen/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), Gwen/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin) mentioned, Merlin & Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Series: Better Camelate Than Never [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2209551
Comments: 2
Kudos: 9
Collections: Camelove 2021





	A Thimble Solution

**Author's Note:**

> ...should I even try to explain myself?

Arthur kicked up leaves as he strolled, rubbing at his back with a fuzzy sense of confusion. Though Merlin had told him that he’d been struck by an arrow there mere hours ago, Arthur felt as fit as a freshly hewn fiddle. Then again, his manservant had a tendency towards melodrama, so he supposed that Merlin driving himself mad over a mild bruise was to be expected. Plus, he had to (somewhat shamefully) admit; the attention he got while “grievously injured” was a bit flattering. He wondered how doting Merlin would become if he gave himself a papercut. 

At that moment, much to Arthur’s chagrin, Merlin wasn’t paying any attention to him at all. In fact, as Arthur emerged from the cavity of the valley, he found the aforementioned manservant perched on a rock, staring broodily ahead _. Absentminded idiot._ Arthur shucked Merlin’s jacket that he was oh-so-very-kindly carrying on his shoulders ( _not_ wearing, shut _up_ , _Morgana_ ) off, balled it up in a fist and lobbed it at the imbecile’s prone form. 

_Bullseye_. 

He imagined he could hear the rattling of that pea-sized brain within Merlin’s skull as the projectile jacket met its target. 

Merlin turned to him with a glare. Arthur kindly ignored the insolence.  
“You look like a startled stoat,” he said instead. 

“Yeah?” Merlin bit back. “Well, at least I don’t look like a bone-idle…” He faltered. Arthur felt a hint of pity at his obvious slowness. “ _Toad._ ” 

Certainly not the best comeback, but Arthur was nothing if not an encouraging employer. He allowed Merlin to believe that he’d been wounded by the remark to give his manservant a boost of confidence in his own wit. He was still learning, after all. 

“You’re saying I look like a toad?” 

Merlin stood abruptly, clumsily pulling the jacket over his gangly arms. _And not a word of thanks._

“Yeah, and maybe one day you'll magically transform into a handsome prince. Since magic's outlawed, that'll probably never happen.” He turned away, probably due to embarrassment over his nonsensical little ramble. “Come on, let’s go,” he said shortly. 

Arthur sighed internally. The bumpkin was lucky he worked for Arthur, who was willing to overlook his forgetfulness of his own station so bloody often. If Merlin were a servant to any other aristocrat, his pea-rattle head would have rolled. 

“Merlin,” he said patiently. Merlin’s head twitched back in his direction, one saucer-like ear turned towards him. “ _I’m_ the one who gives the orders, remember?” 

Merlin paused for a beat, and then said: “Yeah. You ready? Let’s go.” 

Arthur stared at the hunch-shouldered back as it disappeared into the foliage.

_How is it that ears so large fail to catch anything?_

He shook his head with a sigh, then set off after his errant employee. 

For several silent minutes, Arthur trailed after Merlin, huffing with increased frustration whenever his manservant ducked out of view for the nth time. 

“Merlin,” he called, “what the bollocks has you in such a rush?” 

Merlin - either because he couldn’t hear or because he was being purposefully impertinent, did not answer. He benevolently decided to give Merlin the benefit of the doubt and tried again. “ _Mer_ lin.” 

The back of the scuffed brown jacket sank into the trees again. Arthur rolled his eyes and sighed heavily. 

“Merl- _ehugh-_ ” Arthur frowned at the sudden croakiness of his voice, rubbing at his neck. He cleared his throat. “Mer- _eugheugh_ -” His brows knitted tighter together. _Why in Pendragon's good name do I sound like a pubescent mine-worker all of a sudden?_

He pursed his lips, peeved, and stomped off in the direction he’d last seen Merlin go with renewed vigour. The bushes got increasingly higher as he thrashed his way through, and with them, so did his ire. Was Merlin leading him in the wrong direction? They were supposed to be getting closer to the _edge_ of the forest, not going deeper _into_ it. He wouldn’t put it past the idiot - but no. He glanced back briefly over his shoulder - and was smacked in the face with the branch that he _swore_ hadn’t been there two seconds previous - and reasoned that he himself had been sure of their direction and _his_ navigation skills were impeccable, thank you very much. 

So, he merely turned back with a weary shake of his head and leapt over a log - no, wait, that was a tree root _but why is it so bloody large_ \- slashing his sword downwards to slice through a curtain of ivy that dared get in his path. 

He kept going, though he could neither hear nor see Merlin anymore, but he hoped the hopeless case could handle _walking in a straight line_ in order to reach the edge of the forest. He quickly revised that statement with a snort. Merlin associated with anything straight would be comically paradoxical. 

He had begun panting as he forced his way through thick undergrowth. His armour seemed to weigh heavier on his shoulders, the movements of his hands sluggish as they strug- _perhaps_ had some _slight difficulty_ in keeping his weapon up. It was probably the aftereffects of his near-fatal injury (he ignored the hypocrisy of this, as Pendragons are wont to do). In fact, he decided, he should take a moment to rest. A good knight knows his limits, after all. 

With that justification in mind, Arthur slowed to a stop and took a moment to wipe at his forehead. His hand came away wet with sweat… or, at least, it seemed like sweat at first, but he was pretty sure sweat didn’t part with strings of sticky, greenish liquid hanging in the gap. He gawked at his slimy hand for a beat before shuddering and frantically wiping it off on the bark of the nearest tree. One of the branches that’d slapped him on his trek must’ve been residence to some grotesque type of giant slug, he thought. 

Grimacing, he reached up to wipe away the rest of the odious substance, and was horrified when he drew his hand away covered in even more slime. Come to think of it, the _rest_ of his face was feeling rather sticky, too…

Shrie- _yelling manfully_ , Arthur started wiping at his cheeks with his fingers, flinging the snotty gloop in all directions, but his hands only got slicker and slicker, face growing wetter and wetter and his breaths were coming heavier as the world seemed to distort and shift and the darkness closed in around his eyes and-

Arthur blinked. He'd been engulfed in shadows. His first thought was that he’d fallen into a hole, so he looked up, and indeed there was light far above him. As he took in his surroundings, he noted that he’d fallen into some strange sort of cavern, with walls of deep red cast into dramatic folds and though it were, instead of rock, a crumpled sheet, or- 

Arthur looked down at himself. He gulped. Or, a red tunic. 

It took him about ten seconds of staring down at his naked, green body before reality slammed a fist to his nose. That’s when he screamed. 

Well. He tried. It came out a lot more croaked than usua- than what he usually heard from other people. 

He stopped scream-croaking, whipped his head around, and promptly tripped over his own feet. He looked down at the offending appendages and nearly fainted when he realised they were webbed. With a groan, he closed his eyes and buried his face in his hands. Then took away his hands when he realised they were similarly webbed. He looked up at the sky instead. 

There, he sat on his amphibian arse and wondered what the bloody hell had happened. 

Immediately, he reasoned that it must’ve been a work of sorcery. He scowled. There were plenty of sorcerers out there who wanted a piece of him (he didn’t doubt that some of the others _wanted a piece of him_ in other ways, too - he didn’t blame them, he was a catch - and were driven to regicide so that no one else could have him either) and it would take way too long to track them all down in his pitifully small body. He wondered where Merlin was; if he’d even noticed that Arthur was no longer trailing behind him. If he had (and Merlin usually did, bless him, at least Arthur couldn’t fault his loyalty even if his faculties were something to be desired) then he’d probably stumble through the trees at some point yelling Arthur’s name (minus the honorific, because he is nothing if not an improprietous fool) and find him so that the two of them could set off on a mission of vengeance. Arthur grinned just thinking about it. He resolved to wait, confident that his manservant would come for him, and set about trying to make his way out of the Clothing Cave. 

He faltered, stumped, until he realised that, _oh_ , he was a frog, and could just jump his way out. Settling into a crouch, he wiggled in preparation, aimed, and shot upwards. The light grew larger, and he couldn’t help but laugh as the wind sped past his body like it did when he was astride a galloping Llamrei’s back. 

He landed a little clumsily on a heap of chainmail, the metal links cold and uncomfortable under his bare feet. Almost on instinct, he squatted again, and began hopping over his armour, leaving trails of mucusy footprints all over the shined surface. Distantly, he pictured the Kill-Me-Now™ stare that Merlin would inevitably adopt when he was presented with the task of polishing off Arthur’s secretions. 

He grimaced. He was never going to think the word “secretions” again. 

Finally having reached his breeches, he wriggled under a fold of chainmail and squeezed his way to the leather compartmented belt strung through the loops. It was an arduous task, trying to unhook the fastening on the furthermost pocket with his new, slippery fingers, but he managed it and peered over the side. With a sigh of relief, he reached in and drew out the little silver thimble, and held it protectively against his chest. 

Several weeks previous, he’d come across Guinevere on the steps overlooking the courtyard, stitching at a gown that he’d recognised as Morgana’s. He’d stumb- _sauntered_ over, suavely but aloofly asking after her health, checking his nails for dirt as though he couldn’t care either way as he snuck glances at the dark, sun-flushed skin of her soft cheeks, the flyaway curls, glowing in the midday haze, her beaming smile, set upon her lovely face like a sliver carved from the sun itself-

Bugger it all, he was gone for the woman. He couldn’t even muster it in him to pretend otherwise as he sighed, wistful, running the froggy pad of his finger over the ridges in the metal and picturing them as the knuckles of her nimble, capable hands instead. 

She’d dropped the thimble as she’d stood to leave, flustered, stuttering out that Morgana was expecting her and “if you hadn’t _distracted me_ , I wouldn’t be running so _late_ ” before faltering and tacking on a belated “My Lord” (Arthur, very embarrassingly, had near-swooned). She hadn’t noticed the fallen sewing instrument, too busy hitching up her skirts and sprinting up the steps into the building, but Arthur had spotted the flash of silver on the stairs behind her. He’d picked it up, vowed to return it to her the next time they passed by each other, slipped it into his belt, and then promptly broke his promise when they next did (to be fair, between his father’s sudden baldness, all his knights coming down with the plague, the... _wind_ and the ass’ ears, it’d rather slipped his mind). 

Thoughts of Guinevere led him to thoughts of kisses, and thoughts of kisses led him to thoughts of a duel to the death, a tent, a broken rib and a pair of lips fixing onto his, breathing a sudden, blissful clarity into him even as her reverent touch spun him into dizziness. 

He grinned. Oh, he was a genius. A lovesick fool, maybe, but a _genius_ lovesick fool. He didn’t need Merlin to carry him all over the Five Kingdoms tracking down a crazy sorcerer - he just needed to go home and _kiss Guinevere_. He hopped in place for glee. Truly, this was a win. 

In the midst of his joy, he almost missed the familiar sound of thundering hooves rapidly approaching his pile of clothing, but when he did, he hastily shoved the thimble back into his belt pocket and sprang out of his hiding place to confront the oncoming foe. 

Then he caught sight of the four, ginormous, white pillars stretching up to the stormcloud-like body of the horse, and he remembered that he was, at that moment, a frog.

He gulped. 

Atop the horse, large enough to eclipse the sun, was a woman dressed in a dress so garishly yellow that Arthur may as well have been staring at the sun anyway for all it did to his retina. The woman peered down at the pile of clothing with a confused expression, before it cleared, and she shrugged, sliding in a distinctly ungraceful manner off of her steed. She waddled over, hiking up her skirts - so high that Arthur could see her frilly undergarments - to keep the hem from brushing up leaves. Arthur, mildly horrified (and possibly blushing, though he didn’t know how frog skin worked) looked up at her face instead. She then squatted beside the pile, bunching her egg-yellow skirt in her lap and pinched at the chainmail. She frowned. 

“Hm. Whoever this belongs to must’ve gone for a bath in whatever stream _you’re_ from,” she said, meeting Arthur’s eyes. He stiffened, but she just pulled apart the neckline of his tunic and looked down, then grinned at him, saying: “and they’re _definitely_ naked, so they probably don’t want me sticking around long enough to see them come back for their stuff.” 

Arthur seethed, outraged that he’d had the decency to turn away from her underwear and she’d actively gone to seek his out. He opened his mouth to chew her out for her audacity, then realised that if she saw him talk as a frog, she’d stab him. At least, that was what _his_ reaction usually was when encountering obviously magical beasts. Which is what he basically was. He scowled as he began to empathise with all the dragons (read: one) and unicorns (read: one too many) that he’d slayed in the past. This was not the time for a reevaluation of his morals. He ribbited. 

“I guess I’ll just have to eat quickly, then, so I don’t put the poor blighter in an awkward position.” 

_Oh, good, does that mean she’s going to leave soon?_

Arthur relaxed slightly, already sinking onto his haunches and laying his hands on the surface below himself, settling into an instinctive, comfortable position as he eagerly awaited this woman’s departure-

_Wait, eat?_

He barely had time to register the gigantic hand coming towards him before he blurted out a croaked “ _Wait!_ ” 

The hand paused. It was drawn away, replaced by an incredulous face. 

“Did you just-” she narrowed her eyes “-talk?” 

Bollocks. He couldn’t pretend not to be able to at this point, could he? He briefly considered hopping away, but her hand was still dangerously close to his much smaller body and he’d likely be caught within two seconds of his attempted escape. So, with all the dignity he could muster, he drew himself up to full height and puffed up his chest-

-only for said chest to blow up like a bubble, startling him and causing him to fall over backwards. He winced as his tragically flat buttocks impacted with the hard chainmail, stood and reached around himself to rub at his smarting backside, only for his webbed hand to meet something raised and knobbled. His eyes widened. 

“Do I have _warts?_ ”

The woman burst into peals of unrestrained cackles, slapping heartily at her thigh. 

“Oh, you _can_ talk,” she said gleefully, breaths hitching with mirthful snorts. “And yes, you do. It’s alright though,” she added when Arthur’s expression filled with horror, “My nurse has plenty of warts under her human face.” 

Arthur’s horror was suddenly directed at something else entirely. 

“Her _human_ face?” _As opposed to… what, exactly?_

Memories of his dear old ex-stepmummy bubbled to the surface, unbidden, and he had to fight down the urge to hurl as he usually did when reminded of the time his father bedded a troll. 

“Yes,” the woman said matter-of-factly, “though I don’t think I’m supposed to know about the fact that she’s a pixie, so I never mention it.” 

Arthur stared at the woman. He snorted. 

“I don’t believe in pixies.” 

(Somewhere in the forest, tongue shot halfway towards a fly, Grunhilda keeled over and died.)

The woman shrugged. 

“Suit yourself.” Her head tilted curiously to one side. “How’d you learn to talk, then?” Arthur glared, resentful of her surprise over his articulateness. 

“I’ll have you know,” he began haughtily, “I had a _top-quality_ education from only the _finest_ royal tutors in the Five Kingdoms.” 

The woman’s face brightened. 

“Oh, same,” she said. “At least, that’s what Father tells me. The lessons were never very fun, and I never managed to pick much up from any of them, so they can’t have been all _that_ good, can they?” 

Arthur sniffed. 

“Clearly.” 

“You know, Wart, you’re very snooty for a frog.” 

Arthur bristled. His chest ballooned again. 

“I am _not_ -” he snapped, shoving down his chest with a snooty belch “- _snooty_ , and my _name_ is not _Wart._ ” He lifted his chin and stared down (or, rather, up, but the sentiment was there) his flat nose at his aggravating companion. “I,” he announced grandly, “am Crown Prince Arthur of Camelot, son of King Uther Pendragon and Lady Ygraine DeBois.” 

Instead of the stammering of apologies, or the white-faced shock, or even the fangirlish shriek that he expected, the woman let out a dramatic groan, collapsing to sprawl inelegantly on the forest floor. Arthur gaped at her in shock as she began muttering to herself under her breath. 

“I _can’t believe_ I almost _ate_ my _fiancé_ \- if _that’s_ not a bad first impression, I don’t know _what_ is. How do I keep messing everything up like this? _Man_ , am I a disaster...” 

Arthur didn’t even know where to begin with unpacking all of [that](https://www.google.com/url?sa=i&url=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.pinterest.com%2Fpin%2F145804106672495912%2F&psig=AOvVaw12ts71J4nFm029Wk_CIXzb&ust=1613946062576000&source=images&cd=vfe&ved=0CAIQjRxqFwoTCMDx3d-_-e4CFQAAAAAdAAAAABAD). He kept watching her, utterly befuddled, until one particular word caught up with him. “Wait, whaddaya mean “fiancé”?” 

The woman flung her hand towards him without removing herself from her wallowing cloud-spotting position. She held out the limb as though she expected him to shake it. 

“Princess Elena of Gawant,” she sighed, “Only daughter of Lord Peter Godwyn and Lady Gwendolyn Darling. Betrothed to one Crown Prince Arthur Pendragon.” 

Her voice grew more and more dejected as she spoke. The corners of Arthur’s vision grew darker and darker along with it. 

“That,” he said, sounding strangled on top of the now-permanent croak, “is a lie. I am not set to marry anyone.” _Except maybe Guinevere. One day. If we ever get past first base_. 

“You are, actually. Father arranged it all with King Uther. Our union is supposed to strengthen the bonds between our two kingdoms or whatever.” 

“I- well- _my_ father never mentioned anything about this!” 

“Yeah, he was gonna tell you last minute.” She dropped her hand and tilted her head towards him with a sympathetic grimace. “He thought you’d do something dumb like run off to go live on a farm if he gave you enough time to plan for it. Apparently you’ve escaped his guards before.” She looked back up at the sky. “I was there when they discussed it. I suppose they didn’t even _consider_ that I’d have the balls to go against their wishes, being the demure little _girl_ that I am.” She laughed humourlessly. 

Arthur had to admit; it certainly sounded like the sort of underhanded deal Uther would make. It didn’t stop the pang of hurt at his father’s lack of trust in him, not to mention lack of regard for Arthur’s autonomy. 

“No offence,” he said, “but I… don’t particularly want to marry you.” 

“None taken, Wart,” Elena snorted. “I’m not exactly jumping for joy at the idea either.” She snickered. “Geddit? _Jumping for joy_ ? Because, y’know, you’re a _frog_.” 

Arthur rolled his protruding eyes. In doing so, he was able to take in a lot more of his surroundings with his expanded peripheral vision. At least there was _one_ perk to this whole bog-awful situation. 

“I don’t suppose I can marry you anyway, now, what with you being a frog.” She laughed. “The whole court would think I’d gone _hopping mad_ if I turned up at the altar with a toad in tow.” 

Arthur went to pinch the bridge of his nose, realised he didn’t have one and settled for rubbing at his mucusy temple instead. 

“I don’t plan on staying a frog for long. I just have to get back to Camelot and find Guinevere so that this whole situation can be fixed.” _If Merlin would hurry up and get back here, anyway._ He sighed, planning the few choice words he’d aim at his useless servant when he eventually returned. Because he would, Arthur thought resolutely. Merlin always did. His mind drifted to the last conversation they’d had before this whole disaster had started, bringing to surface something the idiot had said during it: “ _At least I don’t look like a bone-idle toad_ ”. Arthur groaned, realising how much joy Merlin would get out of his predicament. He hoped, bitterly, that Merlin found himself feeling distinctly stoat-like right about then. 

Briefly, he considered the possibility that Merlin had somehow, maybe, _predicted_ his current situation… He snorted. Merlin? Involved in magic? _Please_. 

Elena’s voice drew him from his _pond_ ering. (He internally patted himself on the back for that pun. Elena wasn’t the only one who could crack horrid jokes). 

“Hey, Wart?” She asked, and Arthur valiantly stopped himself from snapping at her for the nickname. “Who’s Guinevere?” Arthur, predictably, melted. 

“She’s my true love,” he sighed sappily. “She’s going to give me a kiss, and I’ll turn back into the dashingly handsome prince I truly am, and we’ll live happily ever after with plenty of children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren...” 

Perhaps he was getting carried away. Oh, well. He could dream.

“Ugh.” Arthur could hear the grimace in Elena’s tone. “I can’t imagine having kids. They’re fine in small doses, from, like, fifty feet away, but all of them - without exception - are total devil’s spawn.” She paused. “Or, in yours and Guinevere’s case, _frogspawn_.” 

“That was terrible.” 

“It _toad_ ally wasn’t.” 

“Pendragon pre _serve_ me _, stop._ ” He huffed. “If the children issue wasn’t a dealbreaker, your awful sense of humour certainly is.” 

He impatiently waited for Elena to stop snickering. She did, eventually, sighing slightly. There was silence for a moment, before: “How are you going to convince your true love that you’re, y’know, you?” 

Arthur paused. He-- couldn’t raise a brow. _All that mirror practice in mimicking Gaius, wasted._

“ _You_ believed me, didn’t you?” he bit out, made even more irritable by the lack of his favourite facial weapon besides his self-proclaimed sharp tongue. 

“Well, yes, but I kinda just accept everything at this point. I’m a lot more used to sorcerous shenanigans than I imagine you magical prudes over in Camelot are.” 

He felt the urge to defend his kingdom, but he did have to admit that magic was a rarity in Camelot on a regular day. Sure, there was the dragon, the troll ( _gag_ ), the griffin, the goblin and the familicidal reanimation of his uncle, but otherwise, the heart of Camelot was a magic-free haven. The citizens, therefore, may not have the appropriate… experience to deal with a talking frog that was actually their Crown Prince. 

“I mean,” Elena continued, mildly disbelieving, “you don’t even believe in _pixies._ ”

“What, and you do?” 

“Yes, of course - I told you, my nurse is one in disguise.” 

(Somewhere in the forest, Grunhilda’s eyes blinked open-)

“You’re an idiot. Pixies are just a children’s story.” 

(-and rolled back up into her head.) 

Elena huffed. 

“My _point is_ ,” she said forcefully, “that she might not react well to seeing you like…” She waved her hand in Arthur’s general direction. “That.” 

Arthur looked down at himself and, heart sinking, silently agreed with her. Elena hadn’t immediately impaled him like he knew he would’ve (he ignored the fact that she’d rather have _eaten_ him), but she wasn’t a Camelot native, and Gawant was significantly more unruly than Camelot when it came to magical laws. Gwen, however, _was_ a Camelot native. There was every chance that she’d make an amphibian pincushion of him before he’d managed to croak out a first word. Or maybe she’d stick him in a jar - he distantly recalled Leon mentioning doing something like that with her when they were children. 

Either way, he doubted Guinevere would jump ( _ha_ ) at the chance to snog an animated snotball. He didn’t blame her, though. She shouldn’t have to subject those beautiful, plush lips to his - _shudder -_ warty skin. He glanced up at his apparent betrothed. She was picking her nose. He grimaced, but, staring at her sprawled form, an idea popped into his head. 

What if Guinevere never had to see him like this? 

What if, before he got back to Camelot, he was already himself again? 

“Princess Elena,” he demanded, before he could think himself out of his plan, “I need you to kiss me.” 

Elena’s reaction was visceral. She squeaked, finger half-way up her nose shoving higher in her shock as she scrambled into a crouching position, facing him. She drew her finger out of her nostril. It came away bloody, though she didn’t seem to notice, wide eyes fixed on Arthur. 

“You need me to _what_?” 

“Kiss me,” Arthur repeated simply, eyeing the blood trickling from her nose with a mixture of disgust and concern. Elena sniffed noisily, wiping away the mess with the back of her hand, still gawking at Arthur. “It’s how to break the spell.” Arthur’s eyes narrowed. “Surely you know what a kiss is?” 

“Well, yeah, _duh_ ,” Elena said a bit stiffly. “I just don’t get why anyone would want to- to do _that_.” 

Arthur blinked. He didn’t know why anyone _wouldn’t_ , though he’d never really thought too hard about why further than ‘it feels nice’. Perhaps it didn’t for some people. He mused for a moment on how to explain the appeal of kissing to someone who didn’t understand the appeal of kissing. 

“It’s, ah,” he began hesitantly, “a symbol of love. And mutual regard. So it feels nice when someone gives you one.” 

Elena was silent, scrutinising him for a beat after his admittedly pathetic explanation, then she stood and wandered over to the base of a tree, bending over and rummaging around in the fallen foliage. She then let out a triumphant “ahah!”, straightened, and ambled back over to squat before Arthur again. Arthur watched this all in quiet puzzlement. Elena held out an open hand. 

“Here.” 

Arthur looked down. Sitting in her muddy, calloused palm was a ridged little acorn button. Arthur stared at the acorn button. Then he stared at Elena. 

“What’s that supposed to be?” he asked, bemused. 

“A kiss,” Elena replied cheerily, “or, well, a substitute. It’s a symbol of regard. Not quite love, because - no offence, Wart but I don’t think we’re quite at that level of friendship yet, but it should do the trick.” She then picked the acorn button from her palm, pinching the little stem between her fingers (including the one that’d been up her nose, Arthur noted with revulsion) and helpfully popped it atop Arthur’s head like a hat. “There you go!” She grinned. “You’re right, you _do_ look more handsome after a kiss.” 

Arthur ignored her and stared upwards. In his increased vision, he could just about see the edges of his new headpiece. 

They both waited. 

“Well, that clearly didn’t work,” he snarked. Elena slumped. Then she perked back up again. 

“Maybe you need to give me something back,” she cried, excited. “It’s supposed to be _mutual_ regard, right?” 

“Well, yes, consent from both parties is key.” Arthur looked about himself. Could he offer Elena an acorn button too? No, wait - he had a better idea. Suddenly giddy, he hopped down his chainmail, diving back under the folds towards his belt. Once there, he hauled out Guinevere’s thimble and - grinning - leapt out again, pleased in the knowledge that he’d one-upped his fiancé. “How’s _this_ for a symbol of love and mutual regard?” he crowed (or, well, croaked, since he was a frog and not a bird). Elena watched him, curious, as he hopped onto her shoulder, then her head, and regally placed the thimble onto a knot of flaxen hair as though he were coronating her. Satisfied, he hopped back down again. 

“Now,” he said, “all we’ve got to do is- _woah!_ ” 

He was cut off by a violent lurch in his gut, then a strange tingling overtook his limbs and his whole body vibrated, the world growing smaller and smaller and him taller and taller until- 

He looked down. He flushed and smacked his hands down in front of his privates. 

“For the love of- look _away,_ _woman!_ ” 

Elena rolled her eyes and obliged. 

“Don’t flatter yourself, Wart, you’ve got nothing I’m interested in.” 

“That’s not the point,” he gritted out, angrily pulling on his smallclothes. “And I don’t have warts anymore, so you can stop calling me that.” 

“You’ll always be Wart to me, Wart. Besides, aren’t couples supposed to have cutesy pet names for each other?” 

“How is _Wart_ a _cutesy pet name_?” 

“I mean, I literally gave it to you when you were a cute pet.” 

“ _I was not cute!_ ” 

“Geez, okay, cool it, Hop-Stuff.” She paused. “But yeah, honestly, you looked too tasty to be cute.” 

“Argh!” Arthur screamed into his tunic before his head popped up out of the neckline. He glared. “I am _not_ marrying you. Not in a million years.” Elena shrugged, turning back to him. 

“Fair enough,” she said nonchalantly. “I never wanted to get married anyway. I just worry about what I’m gonna tell father.”

Arthur’s temper abated as he met Elena’s eye. 

“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it,” he said softly. He chewed the inside of his cheek, then nodded humbly to the woman before him. “Thank you for helping me break the curse. I am truly in your debt.” 

“Pshh, ‘s no big deal, Wartie,” Elena dismissed, flapping a hand at him as she stood. She didn’t bother brushing the dirt or leaves from her skirt, and Arthur itched to do it for her. _How domestic of me. We’re practically married already_. “D’you want your kiss back?” 

Arthur thought for a moment. 

“No,” he decided, “you can keep it.” He planned to get a real one from Guinevere as soon as he saw her, anyway. Elena grinned and dipped into a clumsy curtsy. 

“You can keep yours too, then,” she said, nodding in the direction of his hair. Arthur reached up, pulling the acorn button from his locks. He slipped it into the pocket where his thimble had been. 

They looked at each other awkwardly. Then Elena abruptly stuck out her hand for him to shake. He took it and winced. Her grip was stronger than he’d anticipated. 

“Right,” Elena said with exaggerated cheer, swinging her arms back and forth. “Er - I should…” She poked a thumb in the direction of the trees behind her. Arthur nodded quickly. 

“Yes! Yes, of course, I should - ah-” He cleared his throat. “My manservant is probably searching for me. He’s a bit useless without me, poor sod.” 

“Right.” 

“Right.” 

They both stared at each other again. 

“Well, I’ll just head off then.” Elena backed away towards where her horse was grazing at the wild tufts of grass between tree roots. Arthur watched as she clambered onto the horse’s back, swinging her leg over it with absolutely zero decorum, and felt himself smiling a little fondly. She beamed at him, waving enthusiastically with one hand as the other tugged at the horse’s reins. “See ya for the engagement party, Wart!” 

“Wha- we’re _not getting married_ , there’s not going to _be_ an engagement party-” 

“Aw, can’t we hold off the break-up until after we get a party? Let’s get at least _one_ good thing out of this dumb betrothal.” 

“Nope. Not happening. I’m going to go home now and tell my father that the wedding is off.” 

“Oh, pooh. You’re no fun, Wart.” 

“And you can stop calling me Wart!” 

“ _Wart_ are you gonna do about it?” 

“I- I’ll make you _croak._ ” 

“...”

“...”

“...Did you just-” 

“Uhuh. Let that _sink in_.”

“You ju- you just _punned_ me!” 

“Indeed, I did.” 

“Oh, I won’t be _frogetting_ this, _Pond_ dragon.” 

“That was terrible. Absolutely the _warts_.” 

“You know that’s only going to make me keep calling you Wart, right, Wart?” 

“You are infuriating. Absolutely infuriating. I am _so_ glad I’m not marrying you.” 

“Aw, I’m glad I’m not marrying you either!” 

“You shouldn’t be. You’re missing out.” 

“Hmmm, the slime doesn’t really do it for me, thanks. But I’m sure Guinevere’s _hoppy_ to have you-” 

“Do _not-_ ”

“- _Warts n’ all_.” 

“Ugh. I take back the regard. It’s no longer mutual.” 

“Oh well. I couldn’t hold any sort of regard for an idiot who doesn’t believe in pixies, anyway.” 

“I don’t and I stand by that.” 

“Yeah?” Elena tugged her horse to face into the trees, twisting her torso so that she could smirk back at Arthur, eyes twinkling. “Well, I _do_ believe in pixies, and I’ll _prove_ to you that they exist when I introduce you to my nurse at our engagement party.” She yipped sharply, rousing her horse into motion before Arthur could begin to form another retort. “Bye, future _not-Huspond_!” 

(Somewhere in the forest, Grunhilda gasped awake for the second time. Disorientated, she sucked her tongue back into her mouth and rubbed at her pounding head, then glanced around for a hint of her wayward charge. She sighed. She really should ask the Sidhe for a raise.)

**Author's Note:**

> Well, there you have it! Hope you found that _ribbitting_. 
> 
> Kudos and comments are always, always appreciated!


End file.
